


Impossible

by Imposterzoe



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race (US) RPF
Genre: Blood, Extreme angst, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Tw idiots, supposed one sided love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:14:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27281782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imposterzoe/pseuds/Imposterzoe
Summary: This had to be a dream.Because if he was coughing petals it meant he was in love again. And that couldn't be.It just couldn't.But there it was, the proof still wet in his hand.It said that he was in love.And whoever they were, they didn't love him back.
Relationships: Brooke Lynn Hytes/Yvie Oddly
Comments: 5
Kudos: 14





	Impossible

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the Hanahaki expert that is Zyan for Beta-ing and to Vic for listening to me bitch! Ily guys

Brock sat up with a groan. This was his third sleepless night in a row.

There was a tickle in the back of his throat that had been bugging him for weeks, which was only made worse as he choked on his spit. As he coughed he could feel  _ something _ . Covering his mouth, he quickly went into the bathroom. 

Falling in front of the toilet, he tried to force the object out.

He retched violently and suddenly his mouth was filled with the taste of iron. 

He started to smell blood and as he stared into the bowl all he saw was red.

Before he could even think about going to the hospital, another smell hit his nose. It was weird. Almost…. 

_ Flowery.  _

He sat back.

_ No. No, this isn't happening. _

His body jerked as he coughed, head falling back in the toilet.

_ Maybe I'm just bleeding internally. God, please let me be bleeding internally. _

Something came up. There was more blood but that wasn't what scared him. 

There was always blood but it's what was also in the bowl that made his heart jump into his throat. 

He forced himself to fish it out, kinda hoping it would just disappear.

But as small as it was it was also terrifyingly real. This, which would surely be the death of him.

In his hand, he held a single, solidarity petal.

And the sight of it sent his world crashing around him.

"This is impossible," he whispered, "This isn't real."

But he coughed again and another petal fell into his palm.

This had to be a dream.

Because if he was coughing petals it meant he was in love again. And that couldn't be.

It just couldn't. 

But there it was, the proof still wet in his hand.

It said that he was in love.

And whoever they were, they didn't love him back.

~~~~~~~~~~

In hindsight, he'd been fairly lucky when it came to the disease. 

Of course he'd felt the effects before but even then, only for a short period. Thankfully, José had loved him back so he never coughed up more than a few petals. 

By the time they'd called it quits, he had more than enough money to pay for the surgery required to rid his lungs of the buds.

His doctor had repeatedly advised against it. He'd rather Brock give the relationship another shot than give up feeling love  _ ever _ .

At the time he didn't care. If this is what love was— pain and blood and a perpetually sore throat— he never wanted to feel it again.

So he disappeared for a bit, and came back with tattoos that covered the scars and the ability to breathe deeply for the first time in a year.

And he still cared deeply for José, but it wasn't deep enough that the sight of the man sent him running to the bathroom. The only real negative of the whole experience was he couldn't stand the smell of irises. 

But perhaps he'd been a bit  _ too _ lucky.

He'd never heard of someone having the surgery and be coughing up petals a few months later. That was the surgery's whole  _ purpose!  _ You get over the person you're pining for at the consequence of never falling in love again. Pretty fair trade.

So the next morning he rushed to the hospital and they ran so many tests, he'd never been more grateful for health insurance. But in the end, there was simply no logical explanation. 

He was a medical phenomena.

When asking if he could just have the surgery again, he was turned down for numerous reasons. The main being no one knew if someone could survive two removal surgeries, especially since the disease hadn't really started to develop.

"And who knows?" His doctor said. "Maybe he'll fall in love with you too."

_ Sure Doc. _ He thought as he left.  _ All I need to do is figure out who the hell he is. _

~~~~~~~~~~

After a bit of research, he discovered the blooms growing inside him were red camellias. Beautiful as they were, they were huge and complex flowers; if one of them forced its way up his throat, he was sure he'd choke to death.

He needed to know who was causing this and he needed to know now. Shouldn't be too hard. 

It's not like he socialized with that many people.

So he scrolled through his contacts, hoping to feel a twinge of something more when he saw someone's name but no one jumped out at him. 

He even called José just to see if the surgery had just failed completely. 

Nothing, but at least he got to talk to Thackery.

Realizing he'd hit a dead end, he slammed his phone into the wall with a yell of frustration. His yell dissolved into strangled gasps as he fell.

His fingers dug into the carpet in an attempt to orient himself. The room was spinning.

It spun faster and faster as he gagged.

The stench of blood was thick, only being broken with the reeking fragrance of camellia.

His throat was burning as it fought to dispel the buds creeping far too slowly out of his lungs. 

The red pooling on his floor slowly turned to black as he fainted.

He woke to his phone ringing in his ear.

He moved to his knees, taking labored breaths. He could feel the blood soaking his shirt and the petals stuck to his face. 

Forcing himself to look down, his stomach dropped. There was a pile of petals where his head was which was…  _ wrong. _

He should be in stage one, which is coughing up a couple petals every few days. There were too many. 

This was like stage 2 level at least. 

_ This is moving too fast _ .

His phone went off again and his mind was too fuzzy for him to do anything more than pick up.

"Hello?" He croaked out.

"You sound like shit," Jovan said in his usual sincerity.

Somehow he manages a weak laugh. "Thanks, so do you."

"Oh, you're too kind. Look, I wanted to ask you something." 

"How many times do I have to tell you? Just because I'm Canadian doesn't mean I bleed maple syrup." 

Jovan snorted. "That's something someone who bleeds syrup would say. But no, that's not what I wanted to ask."

"Oh?"

_ Is my heart racing? No… No it's just the blood loss. Does blood loss make your palms sweat? Fuck, Jovan's still talking. _

"So are you up for it? Do you want to?"

_ Huh?! _ "Excuse me?"

"Do you want to be in my video?"

"What video?" He flushed lightly, imagination running wild.

The trademark oddly laugh fills his ears. "My music video? For my song? Where have you been for the past 10 minutes?"

"Oh!"  _ I need Jesus.  _ "Yeah sure. When?"

"It's in a month or so. Think you can get here in time?" The hope in Jovan's voice had him melting against the wall. 

"Anything for you," he whispered, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Great. See you then." 

"Bye." The call disconnected and he sighed softly. 

As he did, a singular petal slipped from his mouth and landed lightly on top of the pile. 

He stared at it until everything clicked. 

_ Oh. _

He looked at his phone.

_ Oh no. _

"Of course it would be you."

Because why not? If you're gonna defy science by falling in love twice, it might as well be with another person you knew would never love you back. 

And suddenly he was hitting redial.

"Hey Jovan? Would you mind if I came a few weeks early?" 

~~~~~~~~~

Despite having come three weeks early, by the day of the shoot Brock was as frustrated as Jovan was clueless.

He tried to play it cool at first.

A flirty remark here.

A small touch there. 

But after about a week of that he got impatient. 

His disease was progressing more rapidly every day, and he didn't have time to focus on how good it felt just to be near Jovan.

He'd clogged his toilet no less than 3 times with the half-formed buds that climbed out of his mouth. 

No matter how often he bathed, he was cloaked in a cloud of camellia. He'd taken up smoking again in some hope of slowing the disease down or at least masking the smell.

It wasn't really working

"You smell weird," Jovan had said one day. 

"Uh, thanks?"

"No, seriously." He leaned closer, nose pressed to the crook of Brock's neck. "Are you wearing cologne?"

He actually was, but he felt like admitting that might raise questions. "Yeah, ‘cause I always wear cologne for pizza and cheap beer. It's called 'chain smoking and old sweats.' I'll have to get you a bottle." 

"Oh, please do," Jovan mumbled. "But seriously there's  _ something _ . It's kinda flowery."

"Oh, that's my lotion," he said without thinking, "They make it with camellia."

"Cool. Can I borrow it sometime?"

_ Not a chance.  _ "No way. You wouldn't snuggle up with me then." 

The second he said that he realized Jovan was fully sitting in his lap, arms around his neck, head carefully laid on his chest.

"Yeah I would," he whispers, "I like sitting in your lap."

"I like you sitting in my lap."

He'd like to say that he held Jovan tighter after that.

That he tilted his chin up every so slightly.

That the world fell away as they stared into each other's eyes.

That they kissed ever so softly and everything was perfect from that moment on.

But in reality, he suddenly retched so violently he smacked his head on the wall and inadvertently threw Jovan from his lap.

He stumbled to the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

"You okay?" Jovan called through the door.

"Bad pizza." He managed to call back, pulling a stem from his throat. "You should go home, in case it hits you too."

If there was a response he didn't hear it, more concerned with the whole 'trying not to choke to death' thing. 

The room was empty when he emerged, and that's the last bit of alone time they'd get until the shoot. 

Jovan was too busy the day of, bouncing between catching up with people, getting in drag, and making sure everything was ready, for them to spend any time together.

But maybe that wasn't a bad thing.

See, in the time between their pizza night and the shoot, Brock's condition started deteriorating faster than science claimed made sense.

He forced out a ridiculous amount of fully formed camellias the day before.

It was a nine hour process that left him tired and sweaty and bloody and with the realization that he was going to die. 

Soon.

And with that running his mind, he was silent most of the day.

He was trying so hard to make sure nothing went wrong but he was starting to hold them up with his constant "bathroom breaks." 

"You need your kidneys checked." An extra joked, but he could see the irritation start to build.

Barely managing to fight the urge to run, he was afraid to talk. Within minutes his throat felt full.

So he smiled and danced just enough to make it through, never once opening his mouth.

At least until Vanjie jokingly slapped his back and his yelp left him in an explosion of blood and petals.

And in that second, production  _ stopped. _

All eyes were on him as he slapped a hand to his mouth, fighting the flow of petals that were trying to leave his throat.

He kicked off his heels, darting to the bathroom.

Not even checking to see if it was empty, he collapsed in the nearest clean stall.

Soon the air was perfumed in a familiar scent, and he was sobbing himself breathless.

He didn't register that someone else was in there until thin fingers were brushing his wig back.

"I  _ knew  _ it. Why didn't you tell me?" Jovan asked, sliding down next to him.

He couldn't help but chuckle as he turned. "How do you tell your friends that you've been handed a death sentence?"

"But it's not. There's the surgery and‒"

"I've had the surgery."

Jovan was floored. "B— but… that's impossible."

"Obviously it isn't," he grumbled, turning back to the toilet.

Their conversation stalled as more petals made an appearance.

"Christ, how far along are you?" 

"Believe it or not, stage 4. And it's only been a month." The admission put a weight on his chest as he cried harder.

"That's…" Jovan shook his head. "Who is it?"

"Y'know, you're making it sound like I'm pregnant."

"You could be. Apparently, you're full of medical mysteries."

And just like that they were laughing, albeit rather softly. 

But with each breath, Brock could feel the roots that had long since taken hold in his lungs.

He could feel the familiar satin of a petal on his tongue and leant to spit it out.

Looking over at Jovan, he couldn't help but think. 

_ He's causing this. _

He moved imperceptibly closer. 

_ He could fix this. He could fix it all. I could help him fix it all. _

His eyes dipped to the younger man's lips and he wanted them on his own. 

He needed them on his own.

But the spell was broken with Jovan's next question. 

"Wait, is Vanjie causing this?"

"What? No!" It takes a second to comprehend how Jovan could even form that thought. 

_ God, you're dense sometimes. _

"Then who? Cause you're really antisocial. It's not Vanj, and it can't be me, so…."

If he said anything else after that, it fell on deaf ears.

_ It can't be me. _

"Why can't it be you?"

Instantly, Jovan looked like someone who knew they just said too much.

"It just can't."

Somehow Brock shot to his feet. "Yeah, you're right. We should go finish the shoot."

"But you didn't tell me—" 

"It doesn't matter," he snapped as he left. "They'll never love me, anyway."

Jovan sat there, staring after him. "Then they're stupid," he said to the empty room. "I'd do anything for you to love me back."

He coughed, and as he did something familiar came up.

Staring at the petal sadly, he convinced himself once and for all.

He was in love.

Brock was in love.

But they couldn't be in love with each other. 

That was just impossible.


End file.
